Things Change
by Meg Hunter
Summary: Sequel to "BBC Sherlock Blindness". John and Sherlock are recovering from their traumas and moving on with life. Sherlock has adapted to his permanent blindness and John feels comfortable enough with Sherlock's new independence that he begins to have his own life outside of 221B. Though forever inseparable, this new independence will throw their relationship's future into question.
1. A Rude Awakening

"Sherlock! What the _hell_ are you doing?" John exclaimed while jogging down the stairs in his pajamas. A loud bang – much like an explosion – had startled him rudely out of sleep and he'd instinctively rolled out of bed and headed down stairs to see what Sherlock had done now.

"An experiment." Came the short – though somewhat flustered – reply from the kitchen.

John rounded the corner to get a better look, "The stove is on fire!" he exclaimed – and it was not an exaggeration. Angry orange and golden flames licked the air, flickering dangerously close to the kitchen cupboards.

Sherlock whipped the dishcloth from the hook by the stove and turned to soak it in the kitchen sink before tossing it at the stove top. John caught it in mid-air. "No, it's too late for that now," he replied and dove under the kitchen sink for the fire extinguisher. He struggled to pull out the pin and hold the device correctly with just one good arm. After some initial trouble, he managed to get the fire out. The alarms out in the hallway, as well as the one in their flat, were screaming mercilessly at them.

"Go take care of the alarms," John ordered as his last shred of patience was worn dangerously thin. He didn't care to find out how Sherlock had managed to silence the alarms; all he knew was that it was done very quickly.

John ensured that the hot cooking pots caked with black grime were put safely in the sink to cool and that all of the burners were turned off. Half-expecting an angry visit from Mrs. Hudson any moment he put the fire extinguisher down beside their garbage and collapsed into his comfy armchair in the living room.

Sherlock re-entered the flat.

"Did Mrs. Hudson call down?" John asked.

"Yes, I told her everything was under control."

"If you could see the state of that stove you wouldn't have spoken so hastily," John said bitterly. He knew that he was going to have to clean that up before he left for work. He also knew that this entire fiasco was going to make him incredibly late, and that he should be rushing out the door to work within the next half-hour or so, but he was far too exhausted to rush – especially now that the adrenaline had left him – so he would just have to be late.

Sherlock stood opposite him, hovering uncertainly between the living room and the kitchen. He turned towards the mess as if he had the intention to clean it up, then, as if changing his mind he 'glanced' towards the living room. He did this twice, with his hand resting on the wall between the two rooms to steady him so that he did not become dizzy or disorientated. He did this often; as long as his hand could be touching something solid and familiar, his quick and graceful movements were not a problem – even in his current state. His grey, unseeing eyes finally settled in John's direction "I'm sorry for waking you," he said.

"It doesn't matter," John replied, fighting hard to keep the irritation out of his voice, the resulting tone made him sound exhausted and resigned, "but catching our flat on fire does…" he added, unable to mask the irritation this time, "What on earth were you doing in there?"

"It doesn't matter anymore. I have the results," the detective replied cryptically.

John sighed and pressed the heels of his hands to his tired eyes and rubbed them gently in an attempt to truly wake up.

"You will need to be getting off to work soon… won't you?" Sherlock asked a little uncertainly. John noticed that he wasn't wearing his audio-watch.

"Are you trying to get rid of me?" John asked – part of him was just joking, but he couldn't deny that another part was actually curious.

"No."

John studied his friend for a long moment. He was in his slightly-too-large flannel pajamas with the blue silk dressing down hanging open and limp around his slender frame. His dark, curly, hair was everywhere and in need of a trim. He reminded John of a mix between a mad scientist and a boy playing dress-up in his father's clothes.

"I don't know if I should leave you alone after that stunt," John said curtly.

"I'm not a child, John."

"No. You're worse!" John replied, his voice rising, "A child would never get into half of the trouble that you do!"

Sherlock straightened his posture and huffed in indignation.

"Oh no," John said in warning, shaking his head and trying desperately to control his temper.

"What?" Sherlock pouted.

"You have no right to be irritable," John snapped, "I'm the only one who has a right to be angry this morning!"

A quirky smile crept across Sherlock's lips and he wandered over to the couch and sat down. Leaning forward so that his elbows were on his knees he gazed blindly in John's direction. Though his eyes could no longer pin John to the spot and analyze his every feature and every movement as they used to, Sherlock had lost none of his intensity – its influence had simply shifted from his eyes to his fluid body. Sherlock always found a way to be close to John and to truly express himself through that proximity. When he was mad at John, he kept a great distance, making a physical gulf between them, but when he wanted to show that he cared, his proximity could almost be alarming. Right now his face was less than a foot from John's.

"I am truly sorry that my experiment reacted unexpectedly," he said in earnest. Though the statement was meant well, those were not exactly the words John had wanted to hear.

"Unexpectedly?!" John cut in, "You could have been killed! Or burned down the entire flat!"

"I am also sorry that it woke you and that it has made a mess of our kitchen stove," Sherlock added as if John hadn't spoken.

That was a little better, though it made it sound like it was all the experiment's fault – as if Sherlock had had nothing to do with it… "Oh it's not just the stove, Sherlock," John grumbled in warning as he thought of the singed counter and cupboards and the mess in the sink.

John glared at his flat-mate and then noticed a singe mark on the sleeve of Sherlock's blue dressing gown and a thought struck him."Sherlock, were you burned at all?"

"Not badly," the taller man replied, sitting back with a shrug, "I ducked."

A brief mental image of the tall detective cowering away from the mini-explosion surfaced in John's mind and he fought back a satisfied smile. Maybe this scare was something Sherlock needed to teach him to be more careful. The implications of Sherlock's response of _'not badly'_ then hit John suddenly: "Let me see," he ordered.

"It's fine," Sherlock said flatly – his voice was believable but his actions were not. He had sat back on the sofa creating a larger distance between then, and placed his hands at his side.

"I'm reaching for your hand," John warned as he leaned forward stubbornly.

Sherlock was grateful for the courteous warning and resisted the urge to pull away. "Honestly, John," he said with an _"you're over protective"_ lilt to his voice.

John gently pulled up the damp sleeve where hot water had caught the great detective's arm. The usually pale, milky-white skin was a dull red, but the burn was not severe enough to warrant more treatment than some cold water.

"See? Fine," Sherlock said in satisfaction when his sleeve dropped back into place, "I don't lie, remember?"

John gave a non-committal, "hmm."

"Now, off to work with you," Sherlock stated happily, patting John's uninjured shoulder as he stood up and headed back towards the kitchen.

"Promise that you won't do anymore experiments while I'm gone?" John hedged.

"You know that I can't promise _that_," Sherlock scolded.

_Well, at least he's being honest,_ John thought as he stood and stretched, "Fine, but you can promise not to do any experiments involving fire, or corrosive liquids for the next eight hours."

"Fine," Sherlock said with a huff, "Now go get ready for work."

"Why do you want me out of the house so badly?"

Sherlock reflected for a moment. He never used to care if John was late for work or not. "I have already caused you enough grief this morning; I do not also want to be responsible for you losing your job."

John chuckled, "If they were going to fire me for lateness they would have done it ages ago," he said reflecting on the long-sufferance of his employers. "Besides, you need help cleaning this up."

"No I don't."

"Are you sure?"

"I am more than certain that I am capable of cleaning up the mess that _I_ made," Sherlock said with annoyance.

John backed off. He was only trying to be helpful, but he knew that tone. Sherlock thought that John believed he wasn't capable of doing something because of his new disability. Though that wasn't the truth, John knew Sherlock would take deep offense to any more attempts to help, so he let it drop.

"Alright, I'm going up to get changed."

"Good idea."


	2. Reflections

"Well, I'm off," John said a few moments later – after descending the stairs and heading for the door.

"Have fun," Sherlock said with mock enthusiasm, the idea of cleaning up was already beginning to irritate him.

"Please try not to blow up the whole street while I'm gone," was John's parting remark and Sherlock detected the real note of worry buried in that sarcastic phrase.

"I shall do my best," he replied quietly. His sleeves were rolled up to his elbows and his hands were deep in the sink, as he tried to scrub off the burnt scum at the bottom of the largest pot.

John smiled at the look of utter concentration on Sherlock's face as he battled with the nasty dishes. He headed into the hall to get ready to go. With some difficulty, he slipped on his smart-fitting, heavy, winter coat and Irish cap. It took him much longer to do up the buttons on his coat with one hand, and it was even more difficult to do with his damaged arm tucked inside. Because the coat was not overly large, it would not accommodate John's arm and sling and thus he had to leave the top four buttons undone, often leaving his neck exposed to the elements. Sherlock had bought him a very warm – and he guessed expensive – scarf which he now wrapped around his neck. He grabbed his leather gloves and keys before heading out the door.

…

Sherlock listened to the daily routine as it played out in the hallway: the slip of fabric and jingle of coins as John struggled to shrug on his large winter coat, the dull thud on the hard-wood floor and the quiet grumbling of John's voice as he fumbled to put on his boots and tuck in the laces that he was too frustrated to attempt to tie, the keys being taken from the hook by the door – he loved it all... it was familiar and domestic and spoke to a new normality he and John had finally been able to achieve after months of struggle. He found himself mentally checking off all of the important steps John needed to complete in order to be ready for the biting elements: coat – check, boots – check, scarf – check, keys – check… hat? Had John remembered to put on his hat? Sherlock heard the door close and John's footsteps retreating down the stairs. He quickly went over to the clothing rack. The hat was gone. John must have put it on after all.

Sherlock returned to the carnage of the kitchen and scrubbed rigorously at the dishes. He felt like an idiot. Since when did the great Sherlock Holmes ever make time for dishes? _…Since John and I have come to a new understanding,_ he reflected. He remembered the conversation well and admonished himself for having grumbled for even a moment at having to do something ordinary.

After returning home from the hospital a little over two and a half months ago, he and John had had a very serious talk about how they were going to continue living together now that their situations had changed so drastically. John had promised at the very beginning of all of this to be Sherlock's eyes. He had essentially agreed to stay with him forever and aid him in any way he could. In return, Sherlock had agreed to take on more responsibilities around the flat as well as keep himself in good health. Finally, both had agreed to be utterly and completely honest at all times. The system had worked thus far.

It was frustrating in the beginning – mostly because of John's injury… it had made him irritable and the trauma had caused him to lose many nights of precious sleep to nightmares. John hadn't had the patience with Sherlock that he normally would have, and small issues – such as dropping teacups full of hot tea all over the rug and not knowing how to clean it up – became serious issues that left John more than a little upset. John had finally come around after having a tantrum-like fit because he couldn't get dressed properly – Sherlock had helped him see that it was his own inability to be independent, or to help Sherlock around the house, that was making John so unreasonable. John had taken a deep breath and accepted the explanation and from that point on had been much nicer to live with.

John certainly could be stubborn though. Sherlock chuckled softly to himself as he replayed John's words from earlier in his mind: "_I'm the only one who has the right to be angry this morning."_ As if they took turns being upset. Sherlock supposed that, in a way, they actually did. One of them was usually quite calm while the other stormed on about whatever was bothering them that day. It just came naturally to them, they balanced each other and it worked.

Sherlock could still sense the constant frustration that John felt as he continued to be unable to do things with the facility he had been used to. Sherlock guessed that John felt he had come full circle. He'd been injured, healed, and then been injured again and now had to go through the tedious process of healing all over again. Sherlock also knew that John's injury still gave him pain, though it wasn't supposed to after this much time. On top of it all, the limp – though nowhere near as pronounced – had returned with the injury, and his leg pained him constantly. John had confessed one evening his fear that he was slipping back into the place he was at before he met Sherlock – that somehow all of the good was slipping away and he was going to give in to the fears and the pain that had haunted him over three years ago. "I never want to go back there, Sherlock." He'd said with such emotion in his voice, such fear, that Sherlock thought he must have been fighting back tears. Sherlock had never seen John cry… well, not since the day he stood in the cemetery and watched John mourn him. He had hated himself back then. But he had never seen John give into anything like this before. The closest he'd been to seeing John truly afraid had been during the Baskerville case when he'd drugged John and used him in an experiment – even then, it was quite possible the drugs which had caused him to become so unnerved. Even when John had had a bomb strapped to his chest, he had been so calm. John was always so steady and unchanging. But this new injury had really affected him. It made Sherlock hate Mycroft all the more. After all, it was his fault that the entire incident occurred. Sherlock had managed to be as amiable as possible to John by compartmentalizing his feelings. He had focused all of his own frustration and anger upon his brother thereby leaving a copious amount of patience for both himself and John. It was, of course, an unhealthy way to deal with the situation, but it had worked, so he didn't feel like changing anything. The brothers hadn't spoken since John had gotten out of hospital.

Despite himself, Sherlock knew that his own mental state wasn't as sound as he wished it to be. The explosion this morning had really rattled him. His heart-rate had taken far too long to slow down and he had felt his hand trembling as he stood in the doorway after John had put out the fire – unable to focus his thoughts or figure out a way to solve the issue. The sound had brought him right back to the day he'd lost his sight nearly six months ago and that angered him. Why would that event still bother him? Why did loud noises have the ability to terrorize him? A car had backfired out in the street two nights ago and the unexpected noise had actually caused Sherlock to start and then hit the ground. He had recognized the sound almost instantly, but had been unable to prevent the physical duck-and-cover reaction. He had been thankful that he had been alone in the flat when it happened – John didn't need to know about this.

He slipped out of his private musings and focused on the raw feeling of the sensitive skin on his hands which were still sitting in the grimy water. Maybe he should just throw out the pots and buy new ones… John would never know. Then again, he probably would. That was the curse that came with having taught John how to see things the way Sherlock used to. He was hyper-vigilant in his observations and, while he would never be as capable as drawing conclusions from visual evidence as Sherlock was, he was getting much better at using his new skills to analyze and deduce the great detective himself and would certainly notice any changed made to the flat. Still would that be such a bad thing? Mrs. Husdon certainly wouldn't mind if they bought a new stove too… hmmm. He dropped the pot he was working on into the water with a splash and, after quickly drying his hands on a tea-towel, headed for his laptop.

…

The damp mid-December air was cuttingly crisp. It stung John's face as he stepped out onto the curb and he turned his coat-collar up against the wind as he hailed a cab to take him to work. He winced when, slipping into the back-seat, he had somehow managed to jar his shoulder.

A common fracture of the clavicle should take roughly twelve weeks to heal, but John had been healing for nearly ten weeks and he had a feeling that his was going to take much longer than expected. He'd seen the x-rays, and it didn't look good. He knew from experience that physiotherapy after three months in a sling was going to be a long and frustrating process and the longer he was stuck like this, the longer and more frustrating the process was going to be. He tried not to think about it too much. Overall, it hadn't been too bad. Sherlock had been good to him. He'd been patient and even abnormally accommodating and helpful.

John didn't normally like letting people do things for him, especially when he was injured, he felt that he needed to prove that he was still capable of being self-sufficient. But something about Sherlock made his help ok. Sherlock knew from experience that sometimes people need to do things for themselves and that other times it is really nice to have a helping hand. John was still in charge of simple things like evening tea – Sherlock had spilled one too many coups of tea on their rug. John knew that Sherlock could walk with two cups of tea without spilling a drop if he really concentrated, but tea was often too mundane a thing for Sherlock to waste the mind-power on. However, Sherlock had taken over some of the other tasks – such as folding laundry – that John just was too frustrated to do.

Though the time that it was taking for his shoulder to heal seemed endless, it was the toll that the injury had taken on his mind that bothered John the most. Both of his injuries had come to haunt him in the night. The real pain often blended with old emotional scars from his days in the war to create even more vivid nightmares than before. John was sure that Sherlock knew nothing about it though. Sherlock couldn't see John's tired eyes and John almost never cried out anymore and he never mentioned them. Just because he and Sherlock had sworn to be honest with each other, didn't mean they'd promised to share every detail of their lives with each other. Sherlock had never asked about the dreams, or how John was coping with the emotional side of his recovery, so John hadn't offered the information.

He paid the cabby and offered some lame excuse to his boss when he arrived at the hospital over a half-hour late. He worked hard for the rest of the day, the work keeping his mind off the pain in his shoulder and away from his fears that Sherlock was at home, being bored, and trying to find some way to dispel that boredom. John wondered idly if the flat would still be there when he got back… and would it be clean? I couldn't believe it when Sherlock had actually begun cleaning up before he left.

"Knock, knock," Sarah said from the office doorway.

"Hullo," John said with a smile.

"Are you going to take a lunch today/"

"Why? What time is it?"

"Definitely past lunch time," she said with a smile. Though they were no longer dating, the two had managed a very comfortable friendship. John appreciated having someone at work to hang out with to whom he could also rant about Sherlock. If anyone would understand, Sarah would.

"Well then, I guess I better eat," John said standing up, "Want to come with?"

"Sorry, I've already had mine. I'll cover some of your patients while you're gone. I have a slow day today and want to avoid paperwork."

"Alright, thanks." John reached for his coat but Sarah was quicker. She took it down from the hook on the back of the door and held it up to help John into it.

"Thank you," he said again.

"No problem," she said while handing him his scarf, hat and gloves. "Though it would probably have been easier for you to have brought a lunch. It's cold out there and by the time you get this get-up on lunch will be over." She said with a smile.

"Yes, well, no time to make lunches when you're living with Sherlock… and even if I did make a lunch… I don't think I'd trust Sherlock to leave it alone long enough for me to be able to eat it the next day."

She shook her head with a smile, "Why on earth do you put up with him?"

"I still don't know," John replied with a returning smile.


	3. Coffee

The line-up at the coffee shop where John usually grabbed his lunch was outrageous, but he was too tired to care. The entire place was packed for lunch, though he realized the only reason this felt unusual was because he usually arrived earlier to beat the rush. He waited patiently in the queue with the exact change for his order ready in his hand. They knew him here. He wouldn't even have to order. When it was finally his turn; he exchanged the usual pleasant small talk with the waitress, paid for his order, and then stood at the end of the counter to wait for it to be prepared and handed to him.

"One grilled chicken panini and espresso coffee," one of the waters called over the counter and put the order up.

John reached up to take it.

"Oh, um, excuse me... I think that's mine," a soft voice said quietly. John turned around with the order in hand to see a beautiful young woman with large, pale-green eyes gazing at him beneath naturally long dark lashes.

"Oh, I'm sorry," John said a little flustered in his confusion and embarrassment and immediately handed the order over to her without another thought.

She smiled, revealing perfectly straight white teeth, "It's fine," she said kindly while accepting the offering. "Have a nice day," she added as she headed for a quiet table in the corner where her jacket and scarf were already draped over a chair.

"You too," John said a little too quietly and a little too late. He watched her find her seat. She was wearing brown heels, a knee-length brown skirt that showed off her flawless legs and dainty ankles, and a white blouse which was tucked into the tiny waistline. On the table sat a large document and John wondered if she was a lawyer, or perhaps an accountant?

John tore his gaze away long enough to grab his own order. He stood there for a moment contemplating lunch outside or back at the hospital – nether option sounded very appealing. He glanced around the crowded café and then back at the young woman sitting all by herself in the corner. Then, taking a deep breath for encouragement he approached her table.

She looked up at him when he neared the table and smiled. The smile gave John the courage he felt he had been about to lose, "Um, excuse me, would it be alright if I joined you? The café is packed..."

She glanced around. He took the moment to notice that she had put on glasses. They were delicate and slightly rectangular. They looked lovely on her, and gave her an aristocratic air.

"Unless you're expecting someone..." he offered her as a way out in case she wasn't interested. "I won't be long..." he suggested lightly as she hesitated.

"No, I'm not expecting anyone. Go ahead," she said gesturing to the chair opposite.

"Thank you." John gratefully took the seat and, after placing his order down on the small table, shrugged off his coat and lay his hat and gloves in his lap.

"It's cold out there today," she said as a conventional way to start conversation. She removed her glasses as if they embarrassed her and placed them down beside her plate.

"Freezing," John agreed with a shiver.

"You do work far from here?" she asked, "I've seen you come in here a couple of times."

"Oh, I just work down the street... at the hospital," he clarified, wondering how on earth he'd never noticed _her_ here before. She was certainly worth noticing. She was beautiful... though perhaps a little too slender.

In the brief moment he'd had watched her take her seat, he hadn't missed the fact that she had a lovely statuesque figure and graceful movements. Something about her reminded him of someone, but he wasn't quite sure who. Her hair was so dark it could be mistaken for black. It had been professionally styled and layered; the thick, silky curls had tumbled down over her shoulders. He glanced at her slender wrists and delicate hands; long thin fingers were wrapped elegantly around a plain ball-point pen, she had begin fiddling with it – absently, sliding her fingertips up and down it's sides while the other hand held it steady. Her immaculate nails were covered in a layer of clear polish. She wasn't wearing a wedding or engagement ring but she was wearing a claddagh ring. John knew that it was an Irish tradition; when the heart pointed one way it meant you were free, if it was pointed the other it meant you were in a relationship – he wished he could remember which way was which. On her, too-slender, left wrist hung a thin gold chain.

She reached for her espresso then and raised it to her perfect pink lips. The movement caused John to realize that he had been staring. He felt warmth rise to his cheeks. Why hadn't she said anything? This was all Sherlock's fault. Three months ago he never would have been able to notice the details that were right now leaping out in front of his eyes. For example, the fact that she wasn't wearing any make-up (well, other than the light shade of pink lip-gloss and some discreet masquera) would have escaped him three months ago. He had to admit, he liked the look – it was refreshing...natural. He glanced away and then down at his sandwich, trying to turn the irritating analytical side of his brain off for a few minutes. Was this how Sherlock felt all the time?

He glanced back at her and smiled – feeling slightly awkward – she smiled in return, looking almost completely at ease. Yes, delicate was certainly the word, John concluded. Everything about her screamed fragile – except for her eyes. Those eyes were captivating and intense – focused... they depicted an inner confidence and secret knowledge. They were incredibly sexy.

From this first glance, she seemed to be everything John wasn't, and also WAY out of his league. There was one other thing concerned him... she seemed young... perhaps too young for him to be flirting with, he _was_ nearing forty. He was suddenly keenly aware of his bulky appearance and of his age and was beginning to wish that he's sat somewhere else.

"So you're a doctor?" she asked.

"Yes, Dr. John Watson at your service," he said with a crooked grin and offered her his right hand.

She took it with another glowing smile, "Mia Rivers, Editor," she replied.

"Editor? That's very interesting. What do you edit?" John asked, genuinely interested.

"Novels mostly," she replied with a shrug.

"That must be interesting," he said for lack of a better adjective.

"I enjoy it," she said honestly, "most of the time anyway."

"How long have you been doing that for?" John asked subtly trying to find out her age.

"Five years... and yourself? How long have you been a doctor?"

"Well, I spent some time working overseas," he said, mentally doing the calculations afraid of how long it had actually been, "I was in the army for a time. I've only been working _here_ for about three years."

"The army?"

Her perfectly sculpted eyebrows had raised in surprised, but he could tell that she was impressed. What was it about the army that made women so attracted to soldiers?

"Yes, I joined right out of high school. They put me through medical school and then I did a couple of tours in Afghanistan."

"That is amazing," she said not even trying to mask her awe.

"Not really. It's not what people think."

"What do people think it is?"

"I dunno," he said suddenly uncomfortable, "heroic, I guess."

She nodded in understanding.

"I write as well," she said then, effectively changing the subject, "Though it's more of a hobby than a profession."

"Oh? I write a blog, but it's not very interesting... what kinds of things do you write about?"

"I write novels, usually historical fiction... the past fascinates me. What is your blog about?"

"Well it's supposed to be about my life, but I write about my flatmate mostly," he said honestly.

"Why?"

"Because I find his life more interesting than mine, I guess."

"Really? More interesting than a military doctor?" she didn't seem convinced, "He must be exceptional."

"Well, yes, I guess he sort of is..."

She didn't respond to that, but something in her soft smile made him uncomfortable. It was almost as if she were looking at a puppy. Did she find him _endearing_? Endearing was _NOT_ the look he wanted to be seeing at that moment... he had to fix this. Oh no, was it because he'd mentioned Sherlock? Did she also think he was gay?

"He's a detective," John added lamely.

"Wow, that is interesting," she conceded. "It seems a little old-fashioned, you rarely hear of private detectives anymore."

"So are you working on a novel right now?"

"Yes, actually, it deals quite a bit with the military. I find the terminology and research a little troubling though."

"Oh, well, if you have any questions I can try my best to help," he said kindly, though honestly he really wasn't interested in discussing the war. He'd relived too much of it lately.

"Well it's not really a happy topic for lunch conversation," she said kindly, "and I don't want to bother you with questions. Maybe some other time... you must be hungry."

John looked down at his sandwich. He _was_ hungry. He also glanced at his watch – lunch would be over soon. He took a bite and she slipped on her glasses and went back to reading her manuscript for a few moments. John studied her some more. He didn't want to stare, though it was difficult not to, instead he would sneak a glance here and there as she read. Her hair fell down around her face as she bent her head to read and she would absently tuck it behind her ear before turning each page.

Time passed a little too quickly and neither of them broke the silence that lay between them.

"Well, thank you for letting me sit with you," John said after finishing the last bite of his sandwich. Since he no longer had an excuse to keep sitting there, he reached back to find his coat.

"Oh, no problem," she said – suddenly coming back to reality, "Anytime, honestly," she said with emotion though John couldn't quite figure out what it was.

"Thanks," John said while flashing her another smile. He'd stood up to adjust his coat and scarf.

"I know you come in here quite often," she said suddenly then. For the first time she seemed a bit awkward and uncertain. "I mean, I've noticed that you do... I do too." She added stumbling over her words and reminding him a little of Molly Hooper in the way she tried to correct the statement which may have seemed slightly stalkerish, "Would you..." she hesitated – she had never done anything like this before, "Would you like to join me here again tomorrow? I won't bring work..."

"Sure," John replied without hesitation, pleasantly surprised. He had assumed she wasn't interested. It seemed now that she was just shy. "I'd really like that actually," he added honestly.

She relaxed and that soft, heart-stopping smile returned, "Good, I'll see you then."

"Yah, see you then."

He offered a little wave as he passed outside of the café – and she returned it.

John left the café feeling a thousand times better. The cold didn't seem to bother him much at all and he certainly didn't feel tired anymore... hyper would perhaps have been a more accurate word for the way he was feeling. He replayed their short interaction as he walked back to the office. One thought in particular played over and over again in his mind: she was beautiful, and she wanted to see him again.


	4. Take Away

Mia watched John disappear from view and suppressed a grin. Finally! She'd finally had the chance to meet him! She had first noticed the kind doctor with the gentle smile two weeks ago when a clumsy waitress had spilled hot coffee on him. He had jumped up in surprise, but said nothing and stood blinking – frozen in shock – for a moment while the waitress apologized profusely and fought back tears. He had calmly assured her that he would be alright and that everything was 'fine'. Mia had never heard someone say that word so kindly before. There was no sarcasm or anger in the tone. He'd quietly gone to the restroom to clean up and the silent café had slowly attained its normal hum of activity. Mia had been sitting only a table away and noticed that before he left – in his now very wet and stained trousers – he placed a tip on the table.

Mia had never witnessed such human grace and kindness before in her life, and admired the handsome stranger greatly. Every day since, she had noticed him when he came in. Every day he ordered the same thing and often took it to go. She'd remarked on his eye and hair colour, the laugh-lines on his face, his quiet unassuming manner. He certainly hadn't walked off the cover of a magazine, but in his own way he was handsome. Even more so, she'd discovered today, when he was talking directly to her with his soft blue eyes focused on hers and his warm voice asking her questions. He was attractive in how normal and yet extraordinary he was. She had been very surprised when her order had been called and he'd picked it up. She'd wished she could say something to him as she was taking the order out of his hands, but she had been completely taken off guard and other than: _Hey, you're the guy that had coffee spilled on him_, she couldn't think of any way to start a conversation, so she'd let the idea drop.

She had been completely thrilled when, moments later, he'd approached her table and asked to sit down. It was like something out of a storybook and there was no way she could say no. She was glad that she finally had a name to add to the face: John Watson. She wondered if his limp was from his time in Afghanistan, and she also wondered what had happened to his arm. She had never seen him without the sling and she wondered how much longer he would have to wear it. He had seemed very used to it, by the way he carefully balanced his tray and how he quickly removed and then later put on his jacket. She found him completely fascinating. Her mind kept flashing back to the look he gave her when he first sat down, it was as if he was trying to figure her out... It was the look that you receive from strangers who think that they know you from somewhere but can't quite place you. Though it seemed a little strange, she'd liked the attention.

She silently cursed herself for getting lost in her work. She couldn't believe that she'd let that silly novel command her full attention. She'd gotten absorbed in the plot – which was actually pretty good – and completely forgotten his existence. That is, until he decided it was time for him to go. Tomorrow, she would make up for her rudeness. She'd come prepared to have a very long and detailed conversation. She wanted to know all that she could about this John Watson. If nothing else, he seemed like a lonely man, and there was just a feeling she couldn't shake when he walked into the room; it was as if instinct were telling her that they were meant to be important to each other. She already liked him immensely... tomorrow just couldn't come fast enough.

...

John returned to 221B later than usual that evening. He was almost afraid to open the door, knowing that Sherlock had been cooped up in the flat all day without a case to work on. When he got to the top of the landing Sherlock called out to him, "Hurry up, John, I need your opinion."

He groaned, "My opinion on what?"

"The kitchen of course," Sherlock said and bounded out from said place, drumming his long fingers on the wall impatiently.

John slipped off his boots, as he did so he felt Sherlock's impatient hands on his shoulders and – in less than a moment – he had been stripped of his coat. "Hold on!" John said in surprise and then slowly and stubbornly hung up his scarf and hat. He felt old and creaky and just wanted to sit with a cup of tea. He rounded the corner and stared in shock at his immaculate kitchen. There were no experiments crowding up the table, no burn marks on the cupboards, the stove was... brand new?

"Sherlock, what did you do?" John asked in awe.

"I felt it needed a bit of a change."

"Sherlock you _replaced _our kitchen?!"

"Not all of it. I simply had some people come in and tidy it up a bit."

John opened the fridge – no body parts... at least, none that were immediately visible. He examined the sink – the drain wasn't plugged with guck as he'd imagined it would be when he returned. He dove under the counter into the pots and pans cupboard – brand new. He examined the stove... never been used. He ran his fingers over the spots in the cupboards which, just this morning, had been black as coal – flawless.

"Well?" Sherlock pressured, "What do you think?"

"Sherlock," John said in disbelief. He didn't know what to think. Too many questions were racing through his mind. How had Sherlock done this? Had Mycroft helped? How much had it cost? Did Mrs. Hudson know anything about it? Where were all of Sherlock's experiments? That last question was answered when he turned around and saw the living room. Every surface was covered in beakers and chemistry paraphernalia. "You're experiments are in the living room." He stated lamely.

"Yes, well, the men needed space to work," Sherlock said brushing off the remark. "Tell me John, does the colour match exactly? I told them it had to look exactly the same. They replaced three cupboards."

"Yes, it's perfect," he replied, "But how did you do all of this?"

"I simply went online and did some research, and then I made some phone calls. Several people owed me favors, so the work was done at a decent rate as well as quickly. I told them I needed it completed today and they arrived less than an hour after you left. It won't hurt our bank accounts too much either," he said answering a couple of John's unspoken questions.

"So, when I make a mess I spend an hour or so cleaning up, but when _you_ make a mess it is ok to replace the entire kitchen?"

"Not the entire kitchen. Just the pots, pans, stove and three cupboards – honestly John, the stove was beyond repair."

John shook his head and brushed it off. It was fine. He had left Sherlock to take care of the problem and Sherlock had taken care of it. He simply wouldn't check his account balance for the next few days – he assumed that Sherlock would have taken half of the cost from his account, though he would discover later that in fact Sherlock had paid for it all: "It was my mess," being his only explanation.

"It's fine," John replied, "It looks great. It would be even better if it stayed exactly the way it is – at least for a couple of days," he added, "I had no idea we had that much surface-area in our kitchen."

"Sorry, the experiments have to go back," Sherlock said – not sounding sorry at all.

"I figured," John said in acceptance.

"Care for some take-away?" Sherlock asked then.

"But we have our new kitchen! We should at least cook in it once before you turn it back into a science lab."

"Well, if you feel like cooking after the long day you had, you can be my guest."

John contemplated his options. He really didn't feel like cooking. It would mean he'd have to mess up their tidy kitchen – he really needed to take a picture and add all of this to the blog... no one would believe him otherwise. He decided he could settle with being able to eat at the kitchen table for the first time since he'd moved in, "Ok, take-away sounds good," he assented.

...

A couple of hours later John was fumbling in the kitchen drawer for a fork – he'd decided to give up on chop-sticks, especially since he couldn't hold the cardboard containers of food steady with his other hand.

"So what happened at work today?" Sherlock asked.

"What do you mean?" John was surprised by the question. Sherlock never asked him about work.

"You were home late, but in a surprisingly good mood. So something must have happened."

"Nothing happened," he lied, and then realized he'd just been dishonest. He had been trying to quell that behaviour lately – it was always hard to break oneself of the small habits. "Well, nothing to do with work anyway," he added, though he really didn't want to be discussing this with Sherlock.

"Oh?" he said and waited for John to carry on.

"I met someone at a café," he said simply as he took his seat at the table across from Sherlock – fork in hand.

Sherlock had to fight back the urge to slap John back to his senses. He should know by now that romantic relationships were not his area – John was terrible with women. Yet for some reason continued in his vain attempts to pursue them. Sherlock wondered idly what is was about women that made John so desperate to be involved with them. Surely if it was sex he wanted he could simply go have a one-night stand, or hire someone, but it was more than that. John wanted a _relationship_. He seemed to crave a kind of companionship that Sherlock didn't provide. Sherlock just couldn't figure out what that was.

"Oh," he said offhandedly. He was about to utter the word 'boring' but realized that John was actually willing to talk to him on the subject, "Go on," he added accommodatingly. He was only slightly curious. Usually he found John's love life utterly boring – it always ended the same way. Said love-life was also usually responsible for clouding John's mind and infringing on their time together. Sherlock was already feeling that John was being irresponsible for even entertaining the idea of a relationship right now. Surely the two of them needed more time to adjust?

"There's nothing much to say. I find her attractive, she seems to like me back. I'm going to have coffee with her again tomorrow."

"I see," Sherlock replied. Yep, this was going to be like all of the rest. He was certain of it. _I give it two weeks. _He thought as he finished up his Chinese noodles.


	5. Mysterious Sherlock

John was up before the alarm – long before. He'd had another nightmare and hadn't bothered trying to go back to sleep. Instead he'd sat up and read a book – something he hadn't allowed himself to do in a very long time.

Though he was up early, he didn't really feel tired and – rather than groaning, cursing and trying to fall back to sleep after seeing the time – he'd gotten up to await the sunrise. He was completely relaxed and even a little excited about the day ahead – most likely because he knew that once it officially began it would only be a few short hours before he would get to see Mia again. Though he held _David Copperfield_ firmly in hand, his head was not really absorbing any of the page that he had just re-read three times. He felt like a love-struck school boy, but – though he shook his head at his silliness and tried to focus on the story rather than on what he should wear – he didn't actually mind.

The butterflies were always his favorite part. The start of something new – something exciting. Working hard to impress, and then enjoying the success of an outing where you actually connected with someone on a deep and emotional level – it was the best feeling in the world. Though, to be honest, John hadn't had many of those connections... he never let himself open up that much because his relationships always tended to fall apart. He liked to blame Sherlock, but it wasn't really his fault – it was John's. Perhaps if he put just a little bit more of himself on the line, the relationship would mean more than just the initial thrill of the chase. John was good at getting what he wanted, he just wasn't very good at keeping it. He sighed and put the book down when he began reading the same page for the fourth time. He got up and went to his wardrobe to pick out something to wear. Just one more hour before he could start getting ready for work...

...

Two rooms away Sherlock also lay awake in bed. His mind was spinning out of control – he needed a case. He needed to be useful, to exercise his mind, to feel alive again! His only case since he lost his sight was a set-up that he didn't even get the chance to solve – and that irritated him.

Ever since the bombing that was responsible for the scars on his chest and for taking away the only thing that for most of his life had ever really mattered to him, these dark hours before dawn haunted him. It was always this accursed time of night when he turned to his deepest and most dangerous thoughts. He would never have acknowledged that the hatred and malcontent that boiled inside of him during these distressing episodes were the result of self-pity because he didn't believe that he was capable of self-pity – it was never something he had ever needed to feel before.

It was times like these when all he knew how to do was hate. He hated what had become of him. He hated the constant struggle that never seemed to be getting any better and he hated pretending that it was. He hated that John thought everything was alright. He hated Lestrade for not giving him a case. He hated his brother for not apologizing for anything and for abandoning him the one time he needed him the most. But, most of all, he hated himself for not observing. He hated himself for what had resulted from his pride, his arrogance – the hubris which had led him to this place... that had forever condemned him to the dark.

At first – while lying in that hospital bed all those months ago, letting the knowledge that he would never see again sink into his consciousness – he had thought that his eyes were everything... that he could never be anything without his sight. That his great mind had been almost wholly dependent upon the information those organs had gathered was true, but he quickly realized, that he had four more senses to rely upon. Surely his genius was not solely linked to his ability to notice minute details? Surely he could find other ways to be observant – to be clever. He began almost immediately with those first lonely, tentative, steps around his hospital room.

He never told John what had passed through his mind in those first few hours of reflection after they'd heard the definitive news. Those thoughts which had been dark indeed... too dark to ever speak aloud for fear that they could become a reality. He had swept them aside easily enough, but the doubt remained – a nagging shadow that returned on nights like this, when sleep eluded him. It would come to torment him. On nights like this, Sherlock lived through his own personal hell. The doubt, the continuous thought that repeatedly warned him that soon he would fail; that people doubted him and that he should doubt himself. That he was never going to be the Great Sherlock Holmes again. That he was finished as a consulting detective and would fade into obscurity. For hours he would lay in bed and battle this demon until he felt the warmth of the sun kiss his skin and he could lock the thought away in its cage – hoping and praying that it would never escape to terrorise him again.

He sensed that the cold night was still all around him as he lay brewing atop his covers. There was almost no traffic on the street outside, the night was at its quietest... he judged that it was somewhere between three and four AM. He sat up and reached for his phone. He flipped it open and scrolled through the menu: _main menu,_ the automated voice read: _Contacts, Detective Gregory Lestrade, dialing now..._

"Hello?" a groggy voice answered.

"Do you have anything for me yet Inspector?"

"Sherlock? Is that you?" Irritation crept into the tone swallowing up the initial sound of confusion and disbelief, "It's four in the morning!"

"You should have turned your phone off then," Sherlock replied heartlessly.

"Well next time I will," the DI responded flatly.

"Well?"

"No I don't have anything for you."

"Do you mean you don't have any cases? Or that you have none that you would trust to a blind consulting detective?"

"I mean that unless you're interested in a drug-store robbery, you're out of luck. Now stop calling me! I will contact you if I get a case," the irritation was quickly turning to mild anger.

"Fine," Sherlock replied flatly and hung up. Then, as a sudden fit of frustration hit him, he whipped the mobile at the wall. It hit with a 'crack!' and he heard the dull thud of several small pieces simultaneously hitting the floor and small throw rug. "_Damn it_," He muttered to himself and dropped his head to his hands, rubbing his temples and trying to calm himself. He rose, paced the floor slowly and bent to pick up the pieces that he was able to find. He dropped them unceremoniously in the trash bin and went to his wardrobe to dress. He needed to go out.

...

It was still too early to get ready for work, but John had already given up on reading and had picked out his clothes for the day. He checked his email – empty – and was just beginning to wonder if time had actually frozen when his stomach grumbled. Thankful for the distraction, John left his cosy room and plodded downstairs in a white t-shirt and pajama pants to make a nice breakfast in his shiny new kitchen. His feet were bare and the floorboards in the living room were shockingly cold. With a yawn and a stretch John headed towards the fireplace and began stacking kindling upon the ashes of last night's fire.

John heard the front door quietly open and then shut. He turned to find the blind consulting detective carefully hanging up each article of outdoor clothing on his side of the coat-rack.

"Sherlock?"

The man started slightly and then looked in his direction, "John, you're up."

"Did you just get in?"

"Obviously."

"What were you doing outside this early in the morning?"

"I went for a walk."

John eyed him suspiciously. "A walk?" it was said more as a statement than a question. His tone implied the question: "_why_?"

"Yes, John, a walk," Sherlock replied stubbornly.

"Where did you go?"

"That's none of your business," Sherlock clipped cryptically. He approached the fire rubbing his long pale hands together.

"Fine," John said with a shrug, though the question still burned in his mind, "I'm making breakfast, would you like some?"

"No, thank you." Sherlock's response was short, but yet the tone was almost chipper... John was instantly suspicious.

After warming up his cold fingers Sherlock turned abruptly and headed to his room.

John stood there feeling a bit confused. Sherlock had just returned from an early morning walk and had refused breakfast. Though he never ate much in general, lately he had been pretty good at eating if John offered. Could this mean? ...

John approached the room and knocked.

"Come in," Sherlock's voice murmured through the hard-wood door.

"Sherlock, are you on a case?" John asked. He stood in the doorway, leaning on the frame with his hand still resting on the doorknob.

Sherlock was digging though his rather extensive closet. "Why would you think that?" he asked.

"Because you're acting a little... eccentric," John replied.

"Eccentric?" he said absently as he tossed a garment on the bed.

"Yes, like you used you act when you were on a case."

"No case, just research, John. Nothing to worry about... After all, how could I work on a case without you?"

"Ok, I'm going to make breakfast," John said in defeat as he turned to leave the room. He didn't have time to mess around with Sherlock this morning. If he wanted to be mysterious, let him.

"John?"

"Yes?" he asked, poking is head back into the room.

"Have a nice time at lunch today."

John stood dumbfounded. Had Sherlock just told him to have a nice date? What was wrong with him? He was acting very strange indeed... John was wondering if he should change his mind and stay home. But then the memory of Mia's invitation and the realization of how much work he still had to do at work hit him and his reasonable side – the one that wasn't completely obsessed with taking care of Sherlock – kicked in. Surely Sherlock wasn't about to go on some sort of binge... right? He couldn't see any reason why he would... what would be the trigger? He shrugged the feeling off and headed to the kitchen. "Sherlock is just being Sherlock," he said quietly to himself as he turned on the kettle and new stove.

...

The two week expiration date that Sherlock had placed on John's new relationship had long since passed. John was a constant ball of energy and was disgustingly optimistic and cheerful most of the time. He never said much, but he hummed constantly. He hummed in the shower, while making tea, while cleaning the flat – it was unbelievably irritating. Despite the fact that John seemed to be obnoxiously happy, Sherlock knew that something wasn't quite right in the relationship. It had been nearly a month and John still hadn't slept with her. Now, Sherlock was aware that for many budding relationships this would be relatively normal behaviour... but John wasn't the type to have relationships that lasted more than a few dates and at least one of those dates usually involved him spending the night away from 221B. It wasn't that John didn't want to have longer relationships; it was just that the women in his life couldn't handle his divided attention – though, truthfully, he never really worked very hard to get them to stay around either. Sherlock had noticed a pattern and it was quite obvious that John never really seemed that interested in any of the girlfriends he'd had since Sarah. So why was this girl different? He had gone out to coffee/lunch with her nearly every day since the first day that they met and had also gone on several evening dates usually involving either dinner, or a movie – or both. They had even spent a weekend doing touristy things – such as visiting the London Eye – together. But John had not spent one night away from 221B. Why?

Sherlock found this curious. He wasn't sure what it meant, or if it meant anything at all. But he was certain of one thing: John really liked this woman. He was very clear on that matter. In fact, he had just told Sherlock so when he warned him to be nice to her because she was coming over for a visit tonight. Well, for John's sake, Sherlock would attempt to be nice. Though, he really didn't want to meet her.

He used to find irritating John by scaring off his girl-friends to be rather amusing – not that he had ever really done it intentionally, it was just in his nature... people didn't like him and they definitely didn't like being second fiddle to someone they didn't like. Somehow though, he felt that if he tried a stunt like that now John would find that 'not good' and he didn't want to hurt John. He would be good tonight. It would be just like play-acting and he was good at that. He would be kind and decent and show all the conventional formalities because he had promised and because he needed John and felt that right now John thought that he needed _her_. If Sherlock ever hoped for things to go back to normal without putting their relationship in jeopardy, he needed to be respectful of John's wishes and wait for the spark to fizzle out on its own. He couldn't be the cause of this breakup – it seemed that the relationship was already too far gone for that to be ok. John wouldn't forgive him this time... he had basically said so:

Sherlock had heard John's tentative and slightly uneven steps as he descended the stairs early that morning and approached the sofa where Sherlock lay with his arm draped over his face.

"Sherlock, um, I'm going out tonight... with Mia," he'd said slowly as if expecting some sort of violent reaction.

"Um hmm," Sherlock had mumbled into his elbow.

"She wants to meet you," he announced quietly as if he were telling Sherlock that his best friend had died suddenly.

"Why?" he'd asked – genuinely curious.

"Because you're my flat-mate, and my best friend, and because she's read my blog."

"Oh, I see, so she's a fan," he stated rather than asked. He had removed his arm from his face, but continued to lay sprawled on the sofa with an air of indifference.

"Sort-of," John agreed.

"Fine."

"Fine?"

"Yes, you can bring her by if you feel you must."

John hesitated as if processing this information, "I really like her Sherlock," he confessed.

He'd never spoken about her – except in passing when he was going to be out late. The statement surprised Sherlock and a growing sense of discomfort settled into his chest. If he had been in the habit of analysing himself with the same amount of scrutiny he thrust upon other people he may have wandered if that uncomfortable feeling could be jealousy. He slowly sat up to face John so that he would know that he was taking the situation seriously.

"She's... different from the others," John continued – his voice was faulty. He was acting... unusual.

"Alright," he replied, not knowing what else to say. He had almost asked '_how so?'_ but decided he didn't really want to know.

"Please, for my sake, if you've ever cared about me as a friend, be _nice_ to her," he practically begged.

"Fine," he acquiesced, forcing himself not to groan in irritation.

"Promise me, Sherlock. Promise me you'll make an effort to be civil."

"Alright, I promise."

He had a dreadful feeling that this was going to be a very difficult promise to keep.


	6. Nerves

"I finlly get to get rid of this sling today," John announced happily once he'd settled down at their table.

"That's great!" Mia replied with enthusiasm.

"Well yes and no," John warned, "now the real work begins... I've been through all of this before."

"Physio?"

"Yes. It's torture. Not because it hurts, but because it takes so long and you just want to go back to normal as quickly as possible."

"Well your patience will be worth it. And then maybe you could avoid getting shot again?" she added playfully.

"Yes, I've learned my lesson," John replied with a grin. He loved the way she made him feel – just seeing her made his day, every day.

They settled into lunch and she began chatting about her morning. John found it difficult to concentrate. His mind kept wandering back to the conundrum of this evening's pending event. John was nervous – extremely nervous... that much was obvious to him. He was nervous to the point of illness and had no way to alleviate the sickly feeling deep down in his stomach. All he could think about as he looked across the table at the beautiful woman who was chattering on about her best friend's upcoming wedding, was that, in a just a few short hours, that beautiful young woman was going to be leaving him. It happened without fail every, single, time: John finally gives into his girlfriend's request to meet his mysterious flat-mate – about whom he not only keeps a blog, but also manages to talk about incessantly – she has one conversation (if a few sharp remarks from Sherlock can be called a conversation) and she runs for the hills.

Only a few short weeks had passed, but already John had begun opening up to Mia. He told her things both about the war, and himself, that he'd never told anyone – not even his therapist. It was so much easier to talk to Mia. He had, in her, a truly compassionate ear. She sat quietly and listened and actually seemed genuinely interested. With Mia he didn't feel as though his sanity was being judged – as he did with his therapist – and he didn't' feel as though he was wasting her precious time with tedious details – as he did with Sherlock. He felt that he had found exactly what he needed... a true confidant and friend. What was even better, was that Mia treated him that way too. She had told him all about her life, about being the only child whose parents had very high expectations, about feeling alone, and about her dreams and ambitions.

One day she'd opened up and told him how – though she had a few close friends – she'd never gotten this close to anyone this quickly before. "I don't understand it, John, I just feel that we click somehow... do you feel that way too? It's ok if you don't, you can be honest." She was always saying thing things like that; encouraging him to be honest and really meaning it. She never got upset at something he'd been honest about – only about things he'd been dishonest about. After their third date he'd lied and said he liked the movie, she called him on it and told him to never do that with her. "You can't build any relationship on lies, not even little ones..." She'd told him, "If you don't tell me exactly how you really feel, those little things will begin to add up. Then what you're left with is a big problem."

John had taken her views on honesty to heart and even used it a couple of times on Sherlock. To his surprise, the sleuth did correct the offending behaviour (John made sure that Sherlock knew that the return of body parts to the fridge was 'not good') – though initially the comments were not well received.

In answer to her question about feeling the same connection she did, John had wholeheartedly told her that he did feel that same way and that he enjoyed the feeling.

They'd covered all kinds of likes and dislikes in the first two weeks of their acquaintance and found that they had different, though also similar, tastes in everything from music to movies to food – it was the perfect mix. It was a different kind of dating: seeing Mia every day for a casual lunch rather than twice a week for a formal date added a very nice dynamic to the relationship, it was like one on-going conversation and he looked forward to those lunches more than anything else. This style of dating was also nice because it kept John from feeling guilty about leaving Sherlock.

The lunches were at a time that John usually spent away from 221B, so it wasn't interfering with their lives at home at all. It was a good thing, because at the moment Sherlock was driving him nuts. The man would continually disappear in the early morning and not tell John where he'd been. Experiments now littered not only the kitchen, but also the living room. He desperately needed a case. He had never, EVER, gone this long without one and John was beginning to fear his flatmate was going to do something desperate. John felt that he was needed at home and he was glad that his outings with Mia could still happen. Everyone was happy. As much as he loved spending time with Mia, she was by no means a replacement for Sherlock. Despite his erratic and annoying behaviour, John still looked forward to going home to the crazy detective. Even though there were no pressing cases, John didn't mind running around London with Sherlock in the evenings practising the science of deduction and listening to Sherlock insult people. He _had_ managed to do one small favor for his flatmate and begged Lestrade to give Sherlock some cold cases to toy with. It wasn't really Sherlock's thing, and usually irritated him to no end because in his mind: "The detectives who worked on these cases were complete idiots! No wonder it didn't get solved! They didn't keep any of the relevant evidence!" but at least it kept his fantastic mind occupied. These thoughts of Sherlock brought John back to the moment at hand... Mia was going to meet that genius lunatic tonight. Sherlock had been pacing the flat like a caged animal for weeks, he'd set up copious amounts of experiments, and even found John's gun and shot the wall a couple of times – again. What would he do tonight when he had a new person around to toy with?

He sincerely hoped that Mia would be different from the others – that she would be able to stand Sherlock in small doses and stay with John. Though he didn't like to admit it to himself, he felt that she was an important part of his life now and that he needed her. Not like he needed Sherlock, but she was still something quite special, and he didn't' want to lose her yet.

John found himself wildly trying to think of an excuse... any way that this dreaded meeting could be avoided... but nothing feasible came to mind. _Nope, she's going to have to meet him_, he thought with a sinking feeling, _Well, better to lose her now – before I've fallen in love with her – than to wait too long. After all, Sherlock is a big part of my life. If she wants to be with me then she'll have to be able to put up with him too... If she really likes me she'll be alright with that... _John shook his head at his own ridiculousness, _who am I kidding? No woman is going to be willing to play second fiddle to Sherlock..._

"So you won't come?" Mia asked looking both surprised and hurt.

"What?" John asked snapping back to reality. "I'm sorry?"

"I just invited you to be my 'plus-one' to Allison's wedding," she explained, "You shook your head."

"Oh, I'm sorry," he said honestly, "I must have gotten lost in my own head. Of course I would love to go with you!"

"Oh, good. I'm glad," she said with an enchanting smile sounding relieved. Her pale, sea-foam green eyes searched his face.

John smiled in return and reached across the tiny round table to take her hand in his. Mia's heart fluttered at the contact as John settled his beautiful blue eyes on hers. She loved the laugh lines around his lips and the way the light shone in his eyes. She also loved the feel of his gentle touch as he laid his strong hand over hers and squeezed it lightly to let her know that he was now listening.

"So," she said after a moment, "What were you thinking about?"

"Oh, nothing of importance," he lied, "Probably nothing I need to worry about."

"Are you sure you don't want to talk about it?"

"Yes, I'm sure. Thank you though," John said and leaned across the table to kiss her cheek.

He loved the smell of her perfume – vanilla and brown sugar. It was so faint he could only smell it on the rare occasions he got close enough to kiss her.

Mia was fantastic. She was everything he was looking for: she was smart, sweet, funny, relatively laid-back, caring and easily forgiving. She was also passionate about life and work and loved complete honesty – she never pressured for information because she would rather that John not tell her anything than tell her a lie. John found her completely fascinating – not to mention unbelievably attractive – there was just one small problem... she wouldn't let him get close to her.

Late in the evening on their first official date – dinner and a movie – John had escorted Mia home, paid for the cab, and walked her up to her doorstep. Seizing the moment, while they stood there looking at each other in the dull light of the street lamp, he'd leaned in slowly to kiss her. As he leaned in, though, something had seemed off; she looked... _alarmed _by the gesture and, at the last moment, turned her head ever-so-slightly so that the kiss landed neatly on her soft, warm, cheek.

"I'm sorry," she said quietly, avoiding his gaze.

"No, it's fine," John had replied, trying to assure her despite his confusion. Did she not like him? Had he misread the signs? Bad timing?

"It's just that... I've never really dated anyone before," she confessed. "And, I'd rather not kiss you on our first date... I'd like to get to know you a bit more first."

"What?" John asked in complete shock, taking a step back from her. He'd hardly heard the second part of the statement. His mind had frozen after: '_Never dated anyone before_.'

She looked a little shocked and hurt by the reaction, but John couldn't help it. "How old are you?" he asked outright. The question sounded far more accusatory than it should have.

"Twenty-eight," she said defensively, looking at him now with an unreadable expression.

"And you've _never_ dated before? _Never_?" His first thought was that it was some kind of joke. This couldn't be happening. It didn't make any sense, she was beautiful and sweet and... really? _Never?_

"Never," she repeated, "I'm sorry if it's a problem." She said, not really sounding sorry at all. She wasn't ashamed of her inexperience, but she was hurt by John's obvious problem with it.

"No, it's not that," John said gently – trying to make amends for his outlandish reaction, "It's just... very difficult to believe."

"Why?"

"Well, I mean... other than the obvious... most people at least attempt some form of dating – no matter how trivial – in high school... and then university, well, you know what university is like..."

"Ok," she said with a sigh, "Well if you call that dating then I suppose I have a little... I just mean that I've never ever been in anything close to a serious relationship. I wasn't allowed to date in high school, so, of course, I rebelled and snuck out with a boy on lunch hour at school and hung out with him in the locker bays, but it never went anywhere other than a very awkward first kiss. In university I was a workaholic so I never really bothered with dating, I went to the cinema a few times and that's it. To be honest though, no one was every really interested – I wasn't exactly gorgeous – and the two or three boys that I did go out with were sweet but... not really my type... I've never been into insecure guys and I will never understand anyone who is that obsessed with comic books and videogames." She said with a shrug. "And now, well, since I've been in the working world I just haven't found anyone I really took a liking to... except for you of course. So I'm counting this as my first real experience with dating and I don't want to mess it up by getting physical right away."

"Oh, I see," John replied, not really sure that he did understand her logic.

"And what did you mean by 'besides the obvious'?" she asked then, referring back to something he'd said earlier.

"I mean, well," John had stumbled, "You're beautiful," he confessed. It was the first time he'd actually told her what he'd been thinking since the moment he set eyes on her.

Her fairy-eyes softened and a light blush powdered her cheeks making her even more attractive. She leaned in and brushed her soft lips against his cheek, "Thank you John," she added.

The moment had been so intimate, so charged with deep emotion. Her body, for a moment so close to his, had had John practically trembling with desire. At that moment he'd wanted more than ever to kiss her. He felt that the feel of kissing her would be unlike any other romantic experience he'd ever had, but he managed to keep himself under control.

"It's the truth," he responded breathlessly. John had no idea a simple compliment meant so much. He was going to have to remember to give them more often.

"I'm sorry if my... inexperience... is a problem for you," she had added quietly, this time actually seeming a little upset with herself.

"No, it's... it's ok," John said honestly. "You're actually not the only person I know who's nearly thirty and has never been on a date." His mind flashed to the anti-social genius with whom he shared a flat.

"I'm glad to hear that," she said with a relieved smile.

"I'm sorry if my reaction seemed a little... harsh," he fumbled.

"No, it's fine," she replied gently.

"Ok, well, we'll just take things slowly," he said, taking her hand in his.

"And you're really ok with that?"

"Yes, of course," John replied. It wasn't what he was used to, but maybe that was the problem. Maybe he needed to have a relationship that didn't get physical immediately. Maybe getting to know her before being physically intimate with her would help them both. John had never had a truly meaningful relationship. Already – after only a couple of lunches together and a first date – he felt like he cared more for her than he ever had for any woman this early in a relationship. He just never really put himself out there to get attached. There was no way he was going to let this treasure slip away without trying his best to fall in love with her.

"Good," she said then, "because I really like you, John."

John's heart warmed in response, "I really like you too," he'd stated, being painfully honest. He'd watched her go into her apartment and then returned to the awaiting taxi.

John had learned quickly after that, that Mia's pace was very slow indeed. Hand holding, back rubbing, a casual arm around the waist... these gestures were fine. They were the kind of comfortable, casual, touch that John was allowed to give without hesitation. Kisses, though, kisses were special. It was a new dynamic that John wasn't quite used to. Kisses were given sparingly, but somehow they meant so much more. Mia kissed him when he said something sweet or when she was feeling especially close to him – though occasionally spontaneous, they weren't ever casual. Every one still sent shivers down John's back and left him burning for more. How could he get desensitised when she didn't kiss him enough to allow that to happen? It reminded him of Chinese water torture and he wondered how long it would take before she would be comfortable enough with him to do more than just kiss.

"So, is there anything I should know before I meet Sherlock?" she asked him then.

"You've read the blog," he said, "So you already know that he's a lunatic."

She smiled, "Yes. But one you seem to care an awful lot about," she added without jealousy, "I want to make a good impression."

"That's kind of you, but honestly, you don't have to worry about it. Sherlock always makes a miserable impression."

She didn't reply, but her eyes laughed at him.

John sighed, "I guess all you really need to know is to not take any of his remarks personally, and to ignore most of what he says."

"Ok," she said uncertainly, "You really think he's that terrible?"

"Oh I _know _he's going to be that terrible. He's Sherlock, it's what he does. He's not a people person."

"Then why do you put up with him?" she asked with evident curiosity.

"Because..." John faltered, "Because he's my friend. He helped me a lot just after I got back and... it's difficult to explain." _I need him_, sounded too intense. He couldn't go around telling his girlfriend that he _needed_ his male and potentially homosexual flatmate. Somehow he just didn't think that would go over well.

"Ok, just one more thing..."

"Yes?"

"Why hasn't he been working on any cases recently? You haven't updated in weeks."

"Oh, I don't know to tell you the truth. He's been acting a bit weird lately... ever since the explosion – "

"What explosion?" she asked in alarm.

"Oh, I forgot that this isn't in the blog..." John sighed, "Sherlock is blind. He lost his sight a little over four months ago in an explosion."

"What?! Is he alright? How is he dealing with it? Wait... four months ago... but you were only shot a little over two months ago..." he could see her trying to do the math and figure everything out.

"Yes, he's gotten accustomed to it and he still works on cases."

"But how can he do what he does when he's blind? I thought he relied on his sight for most of his deductions?"

"He did, but as you're soon going to see, he's Sherlock... and there is no one quite like him."

They finished their lunch – John in relative silence and Mia more talkative than ever and incredibly excited about their evening ahead. She'd asked him some more questions about the great detective to fill in the blanks surrounding the knowledge she's already gained from the blog. They left the café together and she walked him to the hospital.

"I'll see you tonight," she said before she left him.

"Right, I'll pick you up at seven," he said as his mouth went dry. The tension climbed up into his shoulders and his stomach grumbled angrily as the nervousness settled there once more.

She waved at him with a smile and disappeared around the corner.


	7. Dating Sherlock

John stood nervously at Mia's front door. He'd buzzed up to tell her he was there and was now waiting for her to come down. She appeared in the doorway wearing a pair of quite classy black-leather, knee-high, heeled boots, tight-fitting black pants and a layered outfit consisting of a long, green, shirt (visible below her jacket), a short – though warm – grey flannel jacket with large black buttons and layered grey and green scarves. The evening was bitter cold and it was already quite dark. Mia's dark curls were down loose around her face, her cheeks were pink with the cold and John could see her breath each time she exhaled. Her large eyes glittered and a smile graced her face. She was the picture of lovely, but it only made John more terrified to lose her.

"Sorry I made you wait," she said while closing the door behind her, "I had trouble picking out an outfit... You could have come up you know, it's freezing out here!" she slipped on a think pair of black leather gloves and then slipped her arm through John's.

"No I'm fine, I can actually wear my jacket properly now, so I'm quite warm."

"Oh that's right! It must feel good to be out of that sling," she said and rubbed the arm that she was wrapped around with her free hand. She then spontaneously leaned in and kissed John on the cheek. He turned to look at her with a surprised smile that made her heart melt.

"What was that for?" he asked softly.

"Oh just because," she replied, unable to explain the light-headed giddy feeling she was experiencing. Was this what love felt like? She leaned in again and this time kissed his cold lips. She could smell a mixture of minty toothpaste and aftershave. "You're freezing."

"No, I'm fine. Honestly," he added when she looked at him skeptically, "And you look lovely by the way."

"Thank you."

"Shall we get a cab?"

"Can we walk for a bit first?" Mia had been waiting all day – and for much longer than that – to finally meet the mysterious Sherlock Holmes, but now that it came right down to it, she was nervous. She wanted more than anything for this strange man to like her. He was, after all, John's best friend, no matter how unfriendly or annoying John said he was, John still cared enough about him to put up with him for this long. It would be like meeting John's parents – if he still had any – and she really wanted tonight to be perfect.

"Sure, if you'd like," John was quite relieved to have a few more minutes alone with her.

They walked in silence for a while. Mia couldn't stop looking at him. She was so happy she felt as though her heart was going to burst. This didn't make any sense... she's only known John for a month! She couldn't be in love with him already... could she? Though, she knew the answer to that question already. She was in love whether she liked it or not. Everything about John made her happy; just being near him, seeing his face, listening to his voice, kissing his lips... she was completely and totally in love. However, at the moment she felt that she couldn't have picked a worse time to come to that realization; tonight was a big deal, even bigger now that she realized how hard she was going to have to try to make this work.

The man on her arm was a soldier. He was also a doctor – a man who had experienced the worse of the worst when it comes to the trials of war. He was a man who had been through many battles and seen many horrors – only some of which she was aware of. By all rights he should be broken, damaged, miserable or at least pessimistic... he had the right to hate the world but he'd chosen not to. Instead, he was cheerful, pleasant, unfailingly kind and loyal. John was a gentle soul and a fantastic boyfriend. He'd been patient, supportive, respectful... a true gentleman... and what's more, he trusted her and she felt that she could trust him. She was determined that, no matter what Sherlock did or said tonight, she would not be scared off. She would be amiable and friendly... she would tolerate him – it was worth it for John.

"You ready to go?" John asked after they'd walked about three blocks in silence. He wasn't sure why he was suddenly the one pushing the issue. Maybe it was because he was actually beginning to feel cold.

"Yah," she said with confidence and John hailed a cab.

...

"Sherlock?" John called peeking around into the kitchen. He and Mia had just arrived at the flat. John had hung up their coats and glanced around their messy apartment – no Sherlock. to his pleasant surprise, Sherlock had taken it upon himself to get rid of some of the experiments from the living room. John wondered where he had stashed them... his room? the closet?

"That's funny, he said he'd be home," John said almost more to himself than to Mia. Secretly he wasn't sure whether to be furious at having been stood up and made a fool of in front of his girlfriend, or whether to be utterly relieved that he had managed to dodge the bullet for some time yet.

"Well maybe he's just running errands," Mia suggested thoughtfully.

"Sherlock?" John asked in disbelief, "No. I don't think so."

He was about to knock on Sherlock's bedroom door when the man appeared, suddenly swinging said door open and standing there looking well-groomed and nonchalant. He was wearing his dark, tailored, suit with the dark purple shirt – the one he knew made him look incredibly attractive.

"Good evening, John," he said flatly.

"Evening," John said a little taken-aback. He couldn't read the tall, dark and handsome detective's mood, but he could definitely see the impression he had made on Mia. John had glanced over his shoulder just in time catch her giving Sherlock an appreciative once-over.

"And you've brought your new girlfriend I take it?" Sherlock said, stepping aside and taking two measured steps closer to the center of the room. He could smell her perfume, but had no idea how close he really was to her.

"Mia Rivers, it's so nice to finally meet you," she said while taking a step closer to him and extending her hand kindly.

It hit John then that Mia must have forgotten that Sherlock was blind, "She wants to shake hands Sherlock," he prompted.

"Oh I'm sorry," Mia said – ashamed of her clumsy error. She was about to pull back her hand when Sherlock grasped it.

A brief look of annoyance had flitted across Sherlock's features – far too quickly for a stranger like Mia to notice. He had cordially grasped her hand and then released it unceremoniously. It wasn't even a real hand-shake and was just long enough for Sherlock to be able to say that he did his duty and was 'civil', but John knew that it was a big step for Sherlock who disliked touching anyone he didn't know well.

As John watched the two of them approach it was as if a lightning bolt had struck him – he felt completely paralyzed. _Oh my God_. His mind went blank as he stared from one to the other and the realization sunk in... _I'm dating Sherlock_.


	8. Tea and Conversation

A nagging feeling had been bothering John since he first laid eyes on Mia. She had reminded him of someone... and sometimes she would look at him in a way that made him feel as though he had seen that exact look before. Now he knew it was because he had. _Sherlock_ had given him the same scrutinizing look hundreds of times. He was dating the physical female equivalent of Sherlock! Why hadn't he seen it before? She was statuesque and extremely slender with dark, curly, hair, pale, soft, skin and pale eyes... How in the world could he have missed that? She even _moved _like him! Of course there was the one very significant difference between the two – other than height... the fact that she was a woman was important, but the resemblance was uncanny. He thanked his lucky stars that Sherlock couldn't actually see her right now... what would he have said? Did Mia notice the resemblance? John tried to pull himself together. Everything had happened in less than a minute and he needed to act like nothing strange had just occurred.

Mia didn't seem to mind Sherlock's quick hand-shake. Though she did seem confused. She kept glancing at Sherlock's eyes and then back to John in question. John, who was seeing Sherlock through the eyes of a stranger for the first time, suddenly realized how difficult it would be for Mia to understand. Sherlock certainly didn't move as if he were blind: his steps were confident and his movements fluid. He was truly amazing and Mia had no idea what to think of him.

"Talks about me often does he?" Sherlock asked – breaking the silence before John had the chance.

"Yes, quite often," she admitted freely.

John blushed slightly at Sherlock's self-satisfied smirk and was thankful that Sherlock couldn't see it.

"You seem to lead a very interesting life Mr. Holmes," she added.

"I try to keep occupied," he said and headed towards the fireplace.

"Would anyone like some tea?" John asked politely – he needed a break. Tea was an excellent excuse... he had to step away for just a minute.

"Yes, that would be lovely," Mia said.

"None for me, thanks. I just had a cup," Sherlock said, but then suddenly changed his mind: "Actually... perhaps I will have one."

John found this behaviour highly suspicious, but said nothing as he turned to the kitchen. "Alright, I'll leave you two to get comfy then. Feel free to sit anywhere you'd like. I won't be a minute."

John realized his mistake almost instantly. In offering to get the tea he had unwittingly put himself in a predicament where he was required to leave Mia alone with Sherlock. Sure, she would just be in the next room... but five minutes alone with the bored consulting detective – even when he was on his best behaviour – may prove to be too much for a first meeting. His head was spinning. He almost returned to the living room to wait for the kettle to boil, but then remembered his earlier resolution: Mia would have to be able to stand Sherlock if their relationship were to continue. Sherlock needed John, and a woman wasn't going to change John's mind about the promises he'd made to his best friend. Besides, he needed time to think and clear his head. With difficulty, he managed to confine himself to the one room. Five minutes wasn't all that long... what could happen?

...

"Please, have a seat," Sherlock offered. "You may sit anywhere except in the armchair... it's John's." Sherlock stipulated, knowing full-well that John's wouldn't care where she sat.

"Thank you." Mia glanced around the crowded and cluttered room and chose an unassuming seat by the desk.

Sherlock took his usual chair by the fire place.

It bothered him immensely that he had no idea what she looked like. He had never thought about it before until she was sitting in the same room with him. He knew that even if he interrogated John about her later and had him describe every physical detail, it still wouldn't really be much good because John was blinded by his attraction to her. Was she blond like Sarah? Or a brunette like Janette? What did _she_ want from John? From the relationship? John was not a rich man, but he was a kind one... he would do anything for someone he cared about... Without realizing it, Sherlock shook his head to push the thoughts away. He leaned forward and grabbed the poker to stoke the small fire he had going in the fireplace. He wondered if she were watching him. the idea of her curious gaze on him made him suddenly uncomfortable. He was supposed to say something... that was how conversation worked wasn't it? Why wasn't _she_ saying anything? Why did he have to do all the work? He hated social interactions... What could he say that wouldn't be too offensive? How does one begin small-talk? He tried to remember the chatty, but half-hearted, attempts made by John's previous girlfriends to instigate conversations. Never had he ever been obliged to begin the conversation on his own. Remembering John's other girls friends brought to mind all of the subtle hostile stares hiding behind the false smiles of every one of them. Was this one the same? Was she also looking at him with that same veiled contempt? With jealousy? Was she, too, wishing that he would just disappear from John's life?

Mia watched the tall, lithe man's movements silently. She couldn't help but stare... he was beautiful. Those dark curls in contrast to his ivory skin and those strange grey eyes made him seem like something ethereal. The fire flickered and the light danced on his face, giving his eyes a strange life that she hadn't seen when she first looked at him. Part of her was still angry at herself for the stupid and insensitive gesture she had made earlier. Hand-shakes were just so automatic... but still, how could she had forgotten? How had this man tricked her into forgetting?

Sherlock gave up completely on the small-talk idea. It was stupid and redundant to mention the weather to someone who had just come in from the outside and he refused to waste his words. He settled with attempting to find an answer to the question that had been bothering him since she came in: "Describe yourself to me," he commanded, after replacing the poker and turning in his chair to face her. He sat completely still.

"I'm sorry?" Mia asked a little taken aback.

"I want to know why John has taken an interest in you," Sherlock replied flatly.

"How should I know that?" she replied, still a little dumbfounded.

"Oh come on," he said lazily in a tone that John had long ago labelled his _'don't be stupid'_ voice, "You must have some idea. Surely he's given you some indication?"

She was silent for a moment before finally replying, "Well, he's given me compliments."

"Yes, exactly. And? What does he say? What compliments?"

"He says he finds me beautiful." She said with a bit of a blush. Sherlock's abrupt nature was making her more than a little uncomfortable, and those strange, demanding eyes seemed to be looking right at her, even though she was certain that they couldn't see anything at all. His whole stance unnerved her, the way he sat so properly – rigidly – in his chair, leaning forward just a bit as if he were interrogating a dangerous criminal. Even the distance between them seemed hostile. She was not really afraid of him... and yet, she was. He was like some sort of brilliant flame. She was fascinated and yet also repelled – as if, much like fire, she knew that his beauty could hide a very real danger. She wondered how John could live with such a strange and intriguing person all the time. Would these feelings that his presence evoked eventually wear off?

"Boring, and?" he pushed.

"I don't know," she said in defeat.

"There must be something else," Sherlock pressured, "John isn't so shallow... or perhaps he is..." he added under his breath.

The last bit irritated her. She felt that it was unfair to John and she couldn't help rising to the challenge in an attempt to defend his honour. She blurted out something she'd always known, but the John had never actually stated: "I think he finds me intriguing." She glanced behind her to see if he might have heard that, but the sound of dishes clinking in the kitchen and the kettle beginning to boil told her that – while he was close – he was still out of earshot.

"Interesting," Sherlock said then, "Why?"

"I don't know."

"You don't seem to know very much," he said sharply, "Use your head, what is it about _you_ that John would find interesting?"

He'd said 'you' as if she seemed utterly dull and ordinary to him and that bothered her. Despite what she thought of the man at that moment, she wanted him to like her. Her mind flashed back to snippets from John's blog and things began falling into place. Sherlock needed puzzles... he was trying to figure her out. But why _did_ John find her interesting? She honestly didn't know.

"I suppose it's because I'm someone new," she said lamely, "He just doesn't know everything about me yet."

A smile crept slowly across those perfect lips. She had amused him... but how? _Why?_

Before he could say another word a buzzer went off somewhere in the distance. "You'll excuse me for a moment won't you?" he said rising elegantly and heading for the stairs.

"Of course," she responded in surprise, instantly feeling relieved.

Just then John came out of the kitchen, "I forgot to ask you what you take in your tea," he said directly to Mia and then – noticing the detective's trajectory added, "Sherlock? Where are you going?"

"Oh just to fetch the laundry, will be back in a moment," Sherlock replied frankly.

"The laundry? Why would you...? You _never _do laundry," he said in shock.

Sherlock had already disappeared.

"I don't take anything in my tea," Mia said in response to John's earlier question.

"Oh, right," he said coming back from his private musings about Sherlock's odd behaviour, and turning to enter the kitchen again, "I'll bring it out in just a moment... actually," he said, suddenly turning back around, "I'm sorry... but, would you excuse me for a moment? I'll only be a second..." and without waiting to hear her reply he headed towards the stairs.


	9. Busted

"Sherlock what are you doing?" John hissed – though there was no way that Mia could hear the two of them, he was speaking in a low whisper.

"I told you John, I'm doing the laundry," Sherlock said nonchalantly.

"You _never_ do laundry, _NEVER. _ Now, what the hell is this really about?"

"I told you that I was going to start helping-out around the flat."

"Yes, but _now_? And why the washing? You have not _ever_ touched the laundry since I've known you."

"Honestly John, I don't understand you," Sherlock said as he began meticulously folding a pair of trousers, "Most of the time you're complaining because I've lumped all my washing in with yours and now you're complaining because I'm doing my own laundry."

John watched in partial fascination as Sherlock's long, intelligent, fingers found all the right seams and folded each article he touched with surgical precision. "My girlfriend is sitting in our living room and you've chosen to do the laundry at this very moment?"

"Why aren't you up with her if you're so concerned about her being alone? She's not my girlfriend."

"Sherlock," John growled the name in warning, "Get back upstairs now." He ordered. "We'll talk about this later."

"I will be up once I've finished," the young man replied stubbornly.

John took a deep steadying breath to keep himself from exploding. Sherlock could be so _infuriating_ sometimes! He turned abruptly and headed for the stairs. "Hold on," he said aloud when he noticed something strange on the floor. He leaned down to pick it up: it was a single cigarette which had somehow rolled into a crack between the floorboard and the bottom stair. "Sherlock?"

"Hm?" he said absently.

"What is this?" John approached and shoved it into the tall man's hand.

"It would appear to be a cigarette," he said flatly.

"Yah, I got that bit," John said darkly, "Where did it come from? And who does it belong to?" Though he already knew the answer to both of those questions, he wanted to give Sherlock a chance to explain himself.

"How should I know that?" Sherlock asked innocently.

"I thought you'd quit," John accused in the steadiest voice he could manage.

"I had."

"For _good_ this time, Sherlock," John said in anger, "I thought you'd finally done it! When did you pick it up again? Hm? How long have you been smoking?"

"I really don't see how that's any of your business, John. As long as I don't do it in the flat, it really makes no difference to you."

"No difference? _No difference?_ Sherlock, have you ever heard of _cancer _before?"

"I am well aware of the potential health risks involved."

"This is why you're doing the laundry isn't it? You didn't want me to smell it on your clothes! I've always known that you've had problems with addiction, but why hide it? Why is this time different? Are you only smoking cigarettes? Or am I going to find you overdosed somewhere?" John was near hysterics; Sherlock had not been expecting this kind of reaction.

"Of course not! And _YES_ it is only the cigarettes," he snapped back.

"How many? How often?" he asked, trying desperately to moderate his voice.

"One or two a day... I've been rationing them."

"Why did you hide it from me?"

"Perhaps because I knew you'd react badly," Sherlock replied flatly and continued folding articles of clothing.

"React badly?" John felt anger creeping up on him again, "How am I _supposed_ to react?"

"Besides, John – other than the laundry – I really didn't go to any great lengths to hide it from you."

"Oh no?" John asked, waiting to hear from Sherlock what 'obvious' signs he'd missed this time.

"I bought a packet the morning you and Mia were going to go on your first official lunch date... the day after you met her."

"Why?"

"Because I was bored. I'd called Lestrade and he'd had nothing... again... and I just decided to go for a walk. Picked them up on the way home. You didn't even notice the smell when I came in. I thought for sure you'd catch me right away, but you didn't... too preoccupied I suppose. I've had one or two every morning since."

John was shaking. "So this was some sort of game? See how long you could go without me catching you?"

"No, don't you see?" he said dropping a shirt back into the basket and turning his full attention on John, "It has nothing at all to do with you – except that I knew it would upset you, so I didn't bother to mention it."

"But WHY, Sherlock?"

"BECAUSE I'M BLOODY _BORED_!" He roared suddenly. John started in surprise – he couldn't remember the last time Sherlock had lost his temper. "I'm sick and tired of doing _NOTHING_ of importance!" he continued, "I feel like I'm going mad, John! That's why! Cold cases, the occasional simple case which is solvable in less than a day... You're always so busy between your work and your girlfriend that you don't notice the tedium when you get home. You actually _enjoy _it because it's a break for you; well it's not a break for _me_! It's the only bloody time of day when I actually get a bit of intellectual stimulation!"

"Ok, ok... I get it... it's a way to relax... it's just a habit that you're used to reverting back to... it makes sense, I guess... just calm down Sherlock." John was concerned; the man's entire body was trembling and John had no idea what to do to make this better.

"Just go back upstairs," Sherlock said quietly.

"But we should talk about this..."

"Later, John," Sherlock said, sounding completely exhausted. "We will talk about it later." He picked up the shirt he had been folding previously and began working on it again.

John hesitated. He wanted to talk more about this... Sherlock obviously had some things he needed to get off his chest... but now really wasn't a good time... Mia would be waiting... _Oh no, Mia! _

John sincerely hoped that she hadn't heard anything that had happened, and that she wasn't too upset – or that she hadn't gotten sick of waiting on them and left altogether. What would he say to her? "Ok, Sherlock, we'll discuss it later," he said and headed upstairs. Once on the main level, he took the stairs of the final flight up to the flat two at a time.

Sherlock stood motionless and listened to John's retreating footsteps. _Damn it._ He thought to himself; this was not supposed to have happened.


	10. The Talk

"I'm so sorry to have kept you waiting," John said as he entered the room – gulping in air to try and catch his breath.

"It's fine. I was just admiring your book collection," she replied, "Is everything alright?"

"Yes, fine... Sherlock is just being Sherlock."

"Did I say something wrong?"

"No, he honestly is just doing the laundry. I was just so surprised I had to go see for myself," he added with a weak chuckle and sat in his favorite chair and leaned forward so that his elbows were resting on his knees.

"Well I'm glad to hear that everything is alright. I hope you don't mind, but I grabbed my tea out of the kitchen. I didn't want it getting cold."

"Oh, no that's fine... sorry, I suppose I really should have given it to you before I left... it's quite a mess in there I'm afraid," he said glancing over his shoulder to look at the kitchen and then to the stairs. He wondered absently when Sherlock was coming back, and what mood he would be in.

"It's alright; I was half-expecting it."

"You were?" he asked in surprise – her words bringing him back to attention.

"Yes, Sherlock's experiments. You rant about them all the time in your blog." She said with a smile.

John realized that he just couldn't do this right now. He couldn't just pretend that everything was ok. His mind kept wandering to the conversation with the man downstairs and he already felt guilty for leaving Sherlock and for lying to Mia.

"You know what, Mia," John began slowly, "Everything really isn't ok." He confessed, as he took a seat next to her on the couch and took her hand – she looked instantly concerned but allowed him to continue: "Sherlock isn't his usual self. Something's come up that's quite important and that we need to talk about. I don't think tonight is a good night for you to get to know him better."

"Is he alright?"

"Honestly, I don't know," he said truthfully, "It's difficult to tell with him... I think he will be. We just need some time to work it out."

"You're very good to him, John," she said taking his hand in both of hers, "I'm glad that you told me the truth. I don't mind going home early if that will be easier."

"Really? Because I feel like a complete ass right now."

"John, our friends are important. I know you won't feel better until the two of you have talked out whatever it is. And besides, I would do the same for my best friend."

"You are the best girlfriend in the world," John said with feeling. He leaned in and kissed her lips softly.

She smiled at him, "I know." She said playfully.

He kissed her again. "I'll make this up to you."

"No need. I'm sure our next date will be great... and who knows, maybe I'll end up ditching you at some point too." The mischievous look in her eyes sent a thrill like an electric-shock through John and he suddenly wanted very much for her to stay.

"Come on, I'll take you home."

"No need, John. I'm a big girl. You should stay here and chat with that odd and strangely fantastic flatmate of yours."

"No, I'm not sending you home alone. I'm not that much of an ass. Sherlock will still be here when I get back."

She got up and headed for the coat-rack, "I _do_ look forward to getting to know him a bit better," she said while slipping on her coat and grabbing John's.

"Really?"

"Yes, he's... interesting."

"Yes, that would definitely be one way to describe him."

...

When Sherlock finally came up to the flat with the basket of neatly folded laundry, he found it had been vacated. It didn't really come as a surprise, though: he'd heard the front door close a few moments before. He placed the basket down on the bed in his room and headed for the answering-machine on the desk in the living room where John usually left his "going out" notes. He pressed the button and waited as the automated voice announced that there was one message...

"Hi Sherlock, I've gone to take Mia home. Will be back shortly to talk."

Sherlock sighed and headed back to his room to put away the laundry. There would be no avoiding John now, so he might as well not even try. He was surprised though, that John had decided to cut the date short rather than wait. It showed that he really was concerned. Sherlock didn't want him to be concerned... Why was John always troubling himself with worries? It must be exhausting.

He reached into the basket and picked up the pile of neatly folded shirts... John usually hung them and put them in Sherlock's closet according to colour. Realizing he had no idea what colour they were, Sherlock placed the pile on top of the dresser to be dealt with later and began putting away more mundane articles of clothing in the drawers where they belonged. It wasn't long before he heard John come in downstairs.

"Sherlock?" the familiar voice called from the foyer.

"In here," Sherlock replied.

He heard John enter the room... he was shifting his weight from one foot to the other and rubbing his hands together. _Cold_, Sherlock thought absently. The scent of the fresh cool air lingered on John and accosted Sherlock. He realized that John must have run up the stairs for the pleasant scent to still be on him.

"So, you brought her home then," he stated lamely, while grabbing the last few socks out of the basket and slipping them neatly into the top drawer.

"You got my message," John said and headed over to the pile of shirts. He opened the wardrobe and began unfolding and hanging each one in its customary place.

"You don't need to do that," Sherlock said quietly.

"I want to," John replied simply.

They worked in silence for a few moments, then: "I'm going to make some tea, do you want one?" John asked, once he'd finished with the last shirt.

"No, thank you."

"Well, come and sit in the living room any way," John ordered gently and left the room.

John's mind had been whirling since decided to he drop Mia off. He knew he'd been quiet in the cab, and she had silently respected that he had something important on his mind. She kissed him goodnight and gave him a long comforting hug before going inside. John knew that he had a keeper this time – Mia really was perfect.

He filled the kettle and turned it on. His mind was full of the past few weeks. How had he not noticed Sherlock's habit? Or even his frustration? Normally, when Sherlock was without a case he did something ridiculous like shoot the wall, or catch the flat on fire, or whine and pace and become downright miserable, but John hadn't noticed any of that in the past two weeks. In fact, life had been quite pleasant at home with Sherlock. When John arrived home in the evenings the man seemed genuinely happy to see him. They would chat about all kinds of things, though usually about John's day and how stupid Lestrade's team was. John had figured that Sherlock was absorbed in the cold cases and never asked him if he'd been working on anything new. John realized now he should have been suspicious. Normal human behaviour was erratic behaviour where Sherlock was concerned... Why hadn't he seen it? He realized that, for once in his life, Sherlock had acted like a mature human being and John had completely ignored him. Maybe this was why Sherlock had used to act so unreasonably... acting like a spoiled child was the only way the genius ever got any attention. Sherlock was never the kind to crave human affection, but admiration, attention – even if it was the result of irritation – were all reactions he did need.

The kettle boiled. John poured his tea and moved to the living room to sit opposite Sherlock in his favorite chair.

Sherlock toyed with the poker. He sat, legs crossed, elegant hands draped over the arms of the chair – one of them fiddling with the handle of the poker that sat in its stand – and simply looked at John. His grey eyes pinned to the spot where he knew the quiet doctor to be sitting. He was waiting for John to say something, but John didn't know what to say. _I'm sorry?_ What for? Had John really done anything wrong? Or was Sherlock expecting John to continue to tell him off again? What does one say to a friend they know is struggling? _I'm here for you?_ Certainly Sherlock already knew that... what needed to stop was the smoking. John could not in good conscience allow his friend to indulge in such an unhealthy – and frankly rather disgusting – habit.

"So, describe her to me," Sherlock commanded, breaking the brooding silence.

"What?"

"Mia, describe her to me."

"Sherlock that's not really –"

"I don't like not being able to picture her. Now that I've met her I need to know who it is I'm looking at."

"Fine," John conceded with a sigh, he didn't know how to broach the other subject anyway, "She's a little shorter than me..."

"Be specific, John. Treat her like you do our other subjects."

"Like the suspect in a murder?" John asked dryly.

"Yes, exactly."

John took a deep breath and released it slowly before beginning..."She's about five-foot-three. Maybe a hundred and twenty pounds. Has shoulder-length, dark, curly hair and large, pale-green eyes. She's... she's dainty and... feminine... she's beautiful Sherlock. Really, honestly, the most beautiful woman I've ever dated. And not just physically..."

"She has a nice figure I take it?"

"Oh yes," John conceded wholeheartedly, "but like I said... there's more to her than that."

"Yes, I can tell," Sherlock said quietly, "You speak about her differently than you did the others."

"She_ is_ different... I don't know how to describe it... but I really care about her. I really think that maybe she could be..."

"The one." Sherlock replied frankly. His response was said without sarcasm or bitterness; in fact, it had been said without any detectable emotion at all.

"Yah," John said quietly, "How did you...?"

"Honestly, John, I don't live under a rock. I know that people believe in the idea of soul-mates." The word felt wrong leaving his mouth in this context. Was Mia John's true soul-mate? Had he found a way to replace whatever it was he thought he needed in Sherlock? Sherlock didn't want to hear any more about her personality or how much John liked her. If things kept up this way there was only one possible ending to the scenario... John would marry her. John would marry her and leave.

"You know, it's funny," John said then, "She sometimes reminds me of you."

Sherlock stiffened imperceptibly, "How so?"

"I'm not sure what it is... I can't quite put my finger on it yet. It's just some things she does or says sometimes... I dunno." John wasn't quite sure why he had told Sherlock that, but he certainly wasn't going to tell him that the connection may have something to do with the fact that she could be is fraternal twin.

For Sherlock, it was an unsatisfactory answer. She reminded him of Sherlock? How? Why? Was that a good thing? He let it drop. It wouldn't do to mull over it now... He was sorry he'd brought the topic up, he was in no mood to hear any more about Mia.

"You know, Sherlock," John said leaning forward and putting his cup and saucer aside, "If things keep going as well as they are... I was wondering how you would feel about Mia moving in with us?"

"Moving in?" Sherlock couldn't believe what he was hearing. John wants to know if he would be ok with this woman moving in to _their _flat? Of course not! The very idea was offensive! ...but then... what was the alternative? If Sherlock said 'no'... would John move in with Mia? "I didn't realize it was that serious," Sherlock managed.

"While, I don't think it is yet..." John backed off a little, "It's still early... But, the relationship is going well. It's going... really well, actually... and if it keeps going well, moving in together will eventually be a logical next step. I just wanted to see how you felt about the whole thing."

"You're planning quite a ways ahead, John," Sherlock hedged, hoping against hope that it was true and that this 'eventuality' was a _long_ way in the future.

"I know. I just wanted to mention it... and to hear your opinion."

"I don't have one yet."

"That's fair," John replied, "Just, let me know when you do."

They sat in silence by the fire for a while. John wasn't sure why he'd brought up the topic of Mia moving in. He'd certainly never spoken to hear about it, and he hadn't even realized he'd been thinking about it until he mentioned it to Sherlock just now. His timing couldn't have been worse... they were supposed to be addressing Sherlock's smoking habit and personal stress... he was supposed to be helping his friend out, not adding to the list of things bothering him_. I really am selfish_, he thought to himself and felt a pang of guilt as he looked at the young man sitting across from him – his pensive expression was turned towards the crackling fire.

"So what are you going to do about the smoking?" John asked finally.

"I suppose I'll quit, if it bothers you so much," Sherlock said resignedly.

"Really?" John asked in surprise, "Just like that?"

"I've done it before."

"You've struggled with it before, you mean."

"I succeeded once."

"For less than a year Sherlock... that's not really success."

"At least I tried."

"Yes, but what I'm trying to say is that if you don't really want to, you won't succeed. We need to find you something else... You need a reason to want to quit. It can't be because I want you too."

"I need a case, John," Sherlock lamented, looking utterly exhausted and depressed.

"You'll have one soon, Sherlock, I'm certain of it."

Just then – as if the fates had been listening – Sherlock's new cell phone began to ring and vibrate on the desk. He was up, out of the chair, and over to it in a flash, "Yes, hello? ... When? ... How do you know?" He began pacing as he listened intently to the voice on the other end of the line, "... When? ... Yes I'll be right there."

"What? What is it?" John asked as he felt anticipation rising in his chest. He'd missed this... the suspense... Was it a case?

"That was Lestrade," Sherlock said gravely as he headed for his coat, "It's Sgt. Donovan, she's gone missing."

"Missing?"

"Yes, they think she's been abducted."

"Why?"

"Because last week another officer went missing."

"And?"

"He turned up yesterday – dead."


End file.
